


The Voice of Reason

by midnightwrites



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, end of season two, pre-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightwrites/pseuds/midnightwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It didn't happen right away. No, most things like this didn't happen right away. It happened as all tragic things happen; slowly, and then all at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Voice of Reason

              When he returned from the cemetery, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. John supposed he could begin working to straighten things out, but it didn’t seem right to start moving things around right away. He knew it was foolish but he couldn’t help thinking, _‘if he comes back and his experiments are gone, Sherlock will be cross’_. John just couldn’t bring himself to move anything.

               A month later, John found himself sweeping up the shattered remains of a few test tubes and Sherlock’s best microscope. He couldn’t exactly remember what happened. He just knew that one moment he was walking into the kitchen, and then next, all of Sherlock’s things were on the ground. He groaned as he swept the glass into a corner of the room, moving things about until he found a dust pan on the side of the refrigerator. When John bent down to sweep up the glass, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his leg. He gasped and dropped the pan and broom, resting a hand on his thigh where the pain briefly was. He blinked quickly a few times before continuing with the task at hand.

-

              It had been a year exactly since the incident in the kitchen, and John was still housed at 221B. He walked with a limp again, and when his psychiatrist asked him why he thought that was, he only shrugged.

              “A lot of things have changed, I suppose,” he answered shortly.

              When he got back to his flat, John hung up his coat and unlaced his shoes. He moved about the house silently, still getting used to things being tidy. The place was now free of anything that had once resembled Sherlock, save for the skull, which still rested peacefully on the mantle.

              The experiments in the kitchen had all been cleaned, the eyes in the microwave and the head in the refrigerator had been disposed of, and anything else that was worth saving had been packed away. John didn’t try to remodel anything else; just kept things simply… 221B-like. The smiley face with the bullet holes remained.

              “Would you like me to put on a kettle, dear?” came a voice. John shook his head without looking back to see who was there.

              “No thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I’m okay,” John replied. He could tell that she wanted to say something else, but instead she just said “okay” and left, closing the door as she left. John sighed and moved to the sink. He poured himself a glass of water and pulled a white medicine bottle from the pocket in his jacket. He knocked back two pills and washed them down with a mouthful of water. He put the glass back into the sink and walked over to the sofa, where he sat. When he sat down, he rested his cane against the cushion, and ran a hand down his face. It still felt odd without another presence in the flat.

_“You shouldn’t work so hard, John; for your own health.”_ John’s head whipped to his right, his heart palpitating quickly. He quickly scanned the room, looking for the owner of the voice that just spoke. No one was in sight. John scrubbed a hand down his face again and shook his head. This couldn’t be happening.

-

                “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay behind,” John said. Lestrade nodded his head as if he understood and waved curtly at John before walking out the door. John closed his eyes and sighed before he closed the door.

_"_ _Your need for closure is getting progressively worse, John, and you seem to be developing agoraphobic behavior.”_

                “Shut up, Sherlock,” John said flatly. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged lightly before he began walking around the flat once more, setting things in place that didn’t exactly need setting.

                _“I say it for your own good.”_

                “Just stop,” John whispered harshly. He stepped around his mind’s projection of Sherlock and went to his own room. He’d been seeing him for months now, and it never stopped. Sherlock was always there, doing the things that he used to do while he was alive, and there was no way for John to shut it down. The few times that Mrs. Hudson had walked in on him shouting at nothing had been the most difficult times for him, because he knew he wasn’t the only one that missed Sherlock.

-

                At first, it was odd and frightening, hearing someone’s voice that hasn’t been alive for a year. Then it was obnoxious, and then it was frustrating.

                John would spend nights upon nights shouting at nothing; eyes clamped shut, hands balled into fists because he just couldn’t stand to hear Sherlock for another moment. If he yelled enough, the mirage would eventually dissipate and the voice would fade. John would lie back on his bed and shelter his face as he cried hot, frustrated tears. Two years later, and he was still dealing with it all. Except now, it had become a welcome presence. He would call to Sherlock when things became lonely or dull, and he couldn’t almost convince himself that Sherlock was really there. He would simply sit or lie down and close his eyes.

               “Sherlock?”

_“Hello, John.”_

**Author's Note:**

> This was based roughly off a Tumblr. post, as many of my one-shots are.


End file.
